MEMORIES  OF 
PRESIDENT  LINCOLN 


:^ 


GIFT  OF 
Goldstein 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN 


EMORIES   OF    PRESI 
DENT    LINCOLN 

WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOCKYARD  BLOOM'o 
O  CAPTAIN  !     MY  CAPTAIN 
HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 
THIS  DUST  WAS  ONCE  THE  MAN 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 


PORTLAND  MAINE:     PUBLISHED  BY  THOMAS  B  MOSHER 
AT  XLV  EXCHANGE  STREET:  MDCCCCXII 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

1912 


LINCOLN'S    GETTYSBURG    ADDRESS 

FOUR  SCORE  AND  SEVEN  YEARS  AGO  OUR  FATHERS 
BROUGHT  FORTH,  UPON  THIS  CONTINENT,  A 
NEW  NATION,  CONCEIVED  IN  LIBERTY,  AND 
DEDICATED  TO  THE  PROPOSITION  THAT  ALL  MEN 
ARE  CREATED  EQUAL. 

NOW  WE  ARE  ENGAGED  IN  A  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR,  TESTING 
WHETHER  THAT  NATION,  OR  ANY  NATION  SO  CONCEIVED, 
AND  SO  DEDICATED,  CAN  LONG  ENDURE.  WE  ARE  MET  ON 
A  GREAT  BATTLE  FIELD  OF  THAT  WAR.  WE  HAVE  COME 
TO  DEDICATE  A  PORTION  OF  IT,  AS  A  FINAL  RESTING 
PLACE  FOR  THOSE  WHO  DIED  HERE,  THAT  THE  NATION 
MIGHT  LIVE.  THIS  WE  MAY,  IN  ALL  PROPRIETY  DO.  BUT, 
IN  A  LARGER  SENSE,  WE  CANNOT  DEDICATE  — WE  CANNOT 
CONSECRATE  — WE  CANNOT  HALLOW,  THIS  GROUND— THE 
BRAVE  MEN,  LIVING  AND  DEAD,  WHO  STRUGGLED  HERE, 
HAVE  HALLOWED  IT,  FAR  ABOVE  OUR  POOR  POWER  TO  ADD 
OR  DETRACT.  THE  WORLD  WILL  LITTLE  NOTE,  NOR  LONG 
REMEMBER  WHAT  WE  SAY  HERE;  WHILE  IT  CAN  NEVER 
FORGET  WHAT  THEY  DID  HERE. 

IT  IS  RATHER  FOR  US,  THE  LIVING,  WE  HERE  BE 
DEDICATED  TO  THE  GREAT  TASK  REMAINING  BEFORE  US  — 
THAT,  FROM  THESE  HONORED  DEAD  WE  TAKE  INCREASED 
DEVOTION  TO  THAT  CAUSE  FOR  WHICH  THEY  HERE,  GAVE 
THE  LAST  FULL  MEASURE  OF  DEVOTION  — THAT  WE  HERE 
HIGHLY  RESOLVE  THESE  DEAD  SHALL  NOT  HAVE  DIED  IN 
VAIN;  THAT  THE  NATION,  SHALL  HAVE  A  NEW  BIRTH  OF 
FREEDOM,  AND  THAT  GOVERNMENT  OF  THE  PEOPLE  BY 
THE  PEOPLE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE,  SHALL  NOT  PERISH  FROM 
THE  EARTH. 


NOVEMBER    XIXTH,    MDCCCLXIII. 


M567S48 


'OTHING  that  unfolding  Time  dis 
closes  diminishes  the  moral  stature 
of  Lincoln.  The  world  grows,  when 
it  grows  better  at  all,  up  to,  but  never 
away  from  him.  To  our  young  men  who  see 
visions  and  our  old  men  who  dream  dreams  he 
beckons  forward  to  effort  for  a  better  world. 
Lincoln  is  our  highest  type  —  greatest  above 
everything  else  in  self-control  to  ends  beyond 
himself.  No  one  can  look  upon  his  portrait 
without  experiencing  a  stillness,  as  of  the  stroke 
of  blended  sorrow  and  beauty  in  the  beholder's 
inmost  heart.  Before  that  gaze  of  his,  so  deeply 
sad,  so  benign,  and  yet  so  firm  and  so  knowing, 
we  are  smitten  to  an  involuntary  reverence  — 
I  had  almost  said  an  awe  —  that  can  only  mean 
we  have  apprehended  however  dimly  a  mighty, 
divine  soul  and  caught,  however  faint  and  far, 
its  message  to  our  own. 

WILLIAM    MARION    REEDY. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD     .         / Vii 

MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN  : 

I.     WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D          2 
II.     O  CAPTAIN !  MY  CAPTAIN II 

III.  HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY  .         .         .         .12 

IV.  THIS  DUST  WAS  ONCE  THE  MAN          .         .         .         -13 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES          .         .         .       '.         .         .         .14 


FOREWORD 


The  main  effect  of  this  poem  is  of  strong,  solemn,  and 
varied  music ;  and  it  involves  in  its  construction  a  principle 
after  which  perhaps  the  great  composers  most  work,  —  namely, 
spiritual  auricular  analogy.  At  first  it  would  seem  to  defy 
analysis,  so  rapt  is  it,  and  so  indirect.  No  reference  what 
ever  is  made  to  the  mere  fact  of  Lincoln's  death;  the  poet  does 
not  even  dwell  upon  its  unprovoked  atrocity,  and  only  occasion 
ally  is  the  tone  that  of  lamentation  ;  but,  with  the  intuitions 
of  the  grand  art,  which  is  the  most  complex  when  it  seems 
most  simple,  he  seizes  upon  three  beautiful  facts  of  nature, 
which  he  weaves  into  a  wreath  for  the  dead  President's  tomb. 
The  central  thought  is  of  death,  but  around  this  he  curiously 
twines,  first,  the  early-blooming  lilacs  which  the  poet  may 
have  plucked  the  day  the  dark  shadow  came ;  next  the  song 
of  the  hermit  thrush,  the  most  sweet  and  solemn  of  all  our 
songsters,  heard  at  twilight  in  the  dusky  cedars ;  and  with 
these  the  evening  star,  which,  as  many  may  remember,  night 
after  night  in  the  early  part  of  that  eventful  spring,  hung 
low  in  the  west  with  unusual  and  tender  brightness.  These 
are  the  premises  whence  he  starts  his  solemn  chant. 

The  attitude,  therefore,  is  not  that  of  being  bowed  down 
and  weeping  hopeless  tears,  but  of  singing  a  commemorative 
hymn,  in  which  the  voices  of  nature  join,  and  fits  that 
exalted  condition  of  the  soul  which  serious  events  and  the 
presence  of  death  induce. 

JOHN    BURROUGHS. 


FOREWORD 

^L  ^^  HITMAN  did  not  subject  Lincoln 
/  ^k  ^k  to  the  literary  but  to  the  human 

I  ^  •  motive.  Lincoln  does  not  become  a 

^L  m  literary  figure  by  his  touch.  Does 
^k  ^^^^^J  not  become  a  man  in  a  book.  After 
^i^^  *^  Whitman  is  done  with  him  Lincoln 
still  remains  Lincoln.  No  way  reduced.  No  way 
aggrandized.  Only  better  understood.  His  back 
ground  does  not  become  a  book.  His  background 
remains  what  it  was.  Remains  life.  Generic  life.  As 
life  is  where  life  finds  life  at  the  root.  I  may  let  Whit 
man  put  in  a  word  for  himself.  Whitman  said  to  me 
of  Lincoln: 

"Lincoln  is  particularly  my  man --particularly 
belongs  to  me;  yes;  and  by  the  same  token  I  am  Lin 
coln's  man :  I  guess  I  particularly  belong  to  him :  we 
are  afloat  in  the  same  stream  —  we  are  rooted  in  the 
same  ground." 

To  know  the  Lincoln  of  Whitman  you  want  to  know 
the  Whitman  of  Whitman.  Whitman  was  literary. 
But  he  was  not  first  of  all  literary.  Or  last  of  all  liter 
ary.  First  of  all  he  was  human.  He  was  not  the 
leaves  of  a  book.  He  was  the  bone  and  flesh  of  a  man. 
Yes,  he  was  that  something  or  other  not  bone  or  flesh 
which  is  also  of  a  man  —  which  finally  is  the  man. 
Simply  literary  analysis  can  make  little  out  of  Whit 
man.  He  does  not  yield  to  the  scalpel.  He  is  not  to 


FOREWORD 


be  resurrected  from  an  inkpot.  His  voice  falls  in  with 
the  prophet  voices.  He  was  not  unlettered.  He  knew 
the  alphabet.  But  he  kept  all  alphabetical  arrogance 
well  in  hand.  The  letter  was  kept  in  hand.  The  spirit 
was  left  free.  You  cannot  buy  a  ticket  for  Athens  or 
Weimar  or  Paris  or  London  or  Boston  and  reach  Whit 
man.  He  is  never  reached  in  that  circle.  The  literary 
centers  do  not  lead  to  him.  You  have  got  to  travel 
to  him  by  another  route.  You  go  East  and  find  the 
Buddhistic  canticles.  You  consult  the  Zoroastrian 
avatars.  And  you  take  the  word  of  Jesus  for  a  great 
deal.  And  you  may  hit  Socrates  on  the  way.  And 
you  keep  on  with  your  journey,  touching  here  and  there 
in  European  history  certain  men,  certain  influences. 
Going  into  port  now  and  then.  Never  going  where 
men  compete  for  literary  judgment.  Never  where  men 
set  out  to  acquit  themselves  immortally  as  artists. 
Keeping  forever  close  to  the  careless  rhythms  of  origi 
nal  causes.  So  you  go  on.  And  go  on.  And  by  and 
by  you  arrive  at  Whitman.  Not  by  way  of  the  univer 
sity.  Not  by  way  of  Shakespeare.  Not  by  way  of  the 
literary  experts  and  adepts.  But  by  human  ways.  To 
try  to  find  Whitman  by  way  of  Shakespeare  or  Moliere 
would  be  hopeless.  I  do  not  disparage  the  other  routes 
to  other  men.  I  am  only  describing  this  route  to 
Whitman.  This  route,  which  is  the  only  route.  Whit 
man  chants  and  prays  and  soars.  He  is  not  pretty. 
He  is  only  beautiful.  He  is  not  beautiful  with  the 
beauty  of  beauty.  He  is  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of 
truth.  The  pen  can  easily  miss  Whitman.  But  the 
heart  reaches  him  direct.  Whitman  is  therefore  the 
best  route  to  Lincoln.  The  same  process  which  pro 
vides  Whitman  for  you  provided  Lincoln  for  Whitman. 
Whitman  said  to  me  again  about  Lincoln : 

"  There  was  no  reason  why  Lincoln  should  not  have 
been  a  prophet  rather  than  a  politician ;  he  was  in  fact 


FOREWORD  xi 


a  divine  prophet-politician;  in  him  for  almost  the  first 
time  prophecy  had  something  to  say  in  politics.  I 
should  n't  wonder  but  that  in  another  age  of  the  world 
Lincoln  would  have  been  a  chosen  man  to  lead  in  some 
rebellion  against  ecclesiastical  institutions  and  religious 
form  and  ceremony." 

HORACE    TRAUBEL. 

We  are  not  told  that  Lincoln  ever  read  Leaves  of 
Grass  or  as  much  as  knew  of  its  existence.  Neither 
are  we  aware  if  Whitman  ever  had  intimate  personal 
speech  with  the  liberator  of  three  million  souls  in 
bondage.  But  we  do  know  and  rejoice  that  both  men 
were  in  the  world  together,  and  near  in  heart  and  brain 
together,  and  that  this  greatest  of  all  dirges,  born  of  a 
nation's  mourning  for  her  dead,  will  remain  an  ever 
lasting  masterpiece  when 


1C 


The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait." 


At  the  close  of  an  address  on  Lincoln  delivered  by 
Mr.  Frederick  W.  Lehmann  at  Memorial  Hall,  Chicago, 
February  I2th,  1908,  there  is  a  splendidly  apt  perora 
tion  which  we  take  pleasure  in  citing  in  full: 

"When  the  children  of  Israel  had  finished  the  period 
of  their  wandering  and  passed  from  the  land  of  Moab 
into  the  promised  land  of  Canaan,  Caleb  and  Joshua 
were  at  the  head  of  the  marching  columns.  But  where 
was  the  man  who  had  led  them  out  of  the  bondage  of 
Egypt  and  had  guided  them  through  all  the  perils 
of  the  wilderness  ?  " 


xii  FOREWORD 


And  Moses  went  tip  from  the  plains  of  Moab  unto 
the  mountain  of  Nebo,  to  the  top  of  Pisgah,  that  is 
over  against  Jericho.  And  the  Lord  shewed  him  all 
the  land  of  Gilead,  unto  Dan,  and  all  Naphtali,  and 
the  land  of  Rphraim,  and  Manasseh,  and  all  the  land 
of Judah,  unto  the  ittmost  sea,  and  the  south,  and  the 
plain  of  the  valley  of  Jericho,  the  city  of  palm  trees, 
unto  Zoar.  And  the  Lord  said  unto  him,  This  is  the 
land  which  I  sware  unto  Abraham,  unto  Isaac,  and 
unto  Jacob,  saying,  I  will  give  it  unto  thy  seed:  I  have 
caused  thee  to  see  it  with  thine  eyes,  but  thou  shalt  not 
go  over  thither.  So  Moses  the  servant  of  the  Lord 
died  there  in  the  land  of  Moab,  according  to  the  word 
of  the  Lord  *  *  *  *  And  the  children  of  Israel  wept 
for  Moses  in  the  plains  of  Moab  thirty  days  *  *  *  * 
And  there  arose  not  a  prophet  since  in  Israel  like  unto 
Moses,  whom  the  Lord  knew  face  to  face. 


When  Mr.  Lehmann  adduced  this  magnificent  paral 
lelism  it  would  seem  that  he  came  very  near  saying  the 
final  word  concerning  Abraham  Lincoln. 

T.  B.  M. 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN 


Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  seamark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind ; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
fruitful  and  friendly  for  his  humankind, 
Met  also  known  to  Heaven  and  friend  with  all  its  stars. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

J$ut  at  last  silence  comes  : 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  famt, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 

birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


Memories  of  President  Lincoln 


WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D 


HEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky 

in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall   mourn  with  ever-returning 

spring. 


Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


O  powerful  western  fallen  star ! 

O  shades  of  night  — O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappear'd  —  O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  —  O  helpless  soul  of  me! 

O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 


In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the  white-wash 'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  3 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  perfume  strong 

I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle  —  and  from  this  bush  in  the  dooryard, 
With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life,  (for  well  dear  brother  I  know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die). 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the  violets  peep'd  from 
the  ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris, 

Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing  the  endless 
grass, 

Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud  in  the  dark- 
brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards, 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 

Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities  draped  in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd  women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night, 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  4 

With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and  the  unbared 

heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising  strong 

and  solemn, 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs  —  where  amid  these  you 

journey, 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang. 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

•  7 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 

For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for  you  O  sane  and 

sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 
But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 
Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 
With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 
For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death.) 

8 

O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I  walk'd, 

As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 

As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after  night, 

As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side,  (while  the  other 

stars  all  look'd  on,) 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night,  (for  something  I  know  not 

what  kept  me  from  sleep,) 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  how  full  you 

were  of  woe, 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  5 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the  cool  transparent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward  black  of 

the  night, 

As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where  you  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 


Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 


10 

' 


0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 

And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea,  till  there 

on  the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 

1  '11  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

n 


O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid  and 

bright, 
With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking  sun, 

burning,  expanding  the  air, 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  6 

With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green  leaves  of  the 
trees  prolific, 

In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a  wind- 
dapple  here  and  there, 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the  sky,  and 
shadows, 

And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of  chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the  workmen  homeward 
returning. 

jf 

rfy/l 

Lo,  body  and  soul  —  this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying  tides,  and 

the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the  light,  Ohio's 

shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover 'd  with  grass  and  corn. 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 

The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 

The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 

The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 

The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

13 

Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from  the  bushes, 

Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

\ 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender ! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul  —  O  wondrous  singer! 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN 

You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me,  (but  will  soon  depart,) 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 


14 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring,  and  the 

farmers  preparing  their  crops, 

In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes  and  forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,  (after  the  perturb'd  winds  and  the  storms,) 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and  the  voices 

of  children  and  women, 

The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they  sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all  busy  with 

labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each  with  its/j 

meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 
And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities  pent — lo, 

then  and  there, 

Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with  the  rest, 
Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear 'd  the  long  black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the  hands  of 

companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the  dimness, 
To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three, 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  8 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sootier  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 
For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  cunotis, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  I  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwmding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  offidlest  welcome  f 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliver  ess, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  O  death. 

*  From  ike  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  f eastings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  I  know, 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veil 'd  death, 

And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  9 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the  prairies 

wide, 

Over  the  dense-pack 'd  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  wit  It  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night. 

T.niHJJn  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd  with  missiles  I  saw 

them, 

And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and  torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and  all  in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 

The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  10 

16 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song  of  my  soul, 

Victorious  song,  death 's_outlet  song,  y^et  varying  ever-altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling,  flooding  the 

night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet  again  bursting 

with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  dooryard,  blooming,  returning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  communing  with  thee, 

O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 

And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  countenance  full  of  woe, 

With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of  the  bird, 

Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  to  keep,  for  the 

dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands — and  this  for  his 

dear  sake, 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  n 


II 
O  CAPTAIN  !    MY  CAPTAIN  ! 

CAPTAIN!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon 'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You  Ve  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won ; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN  12 


III 
HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 

(May  4,  1865) 

USH'D  be  the  camps  to-day, 
And  soldiers  let  us  drape  our  war-worn  weapons, 
And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  celebrate, 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 

Nor  victory,  nor  defeat — no  more  time's  dark  events, 

Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the  sky. 

But  sing  poet  in  our  name, 

Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him  —  because  you,  dweller  in  camps,  know  it 
truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing — as  they  close  the  doors  of  earth  upon  him  —  one  verse, 

For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 


MEMORIES     OF     PRESIDENT     LINCOLN 


IV 


THIS  DUST  WAS  ONCE  THE  MAN 


Pq-lF^HIS 

Gen 

Aga 


dust  was  once  the  man, 

Gentle,  plain,  just  and  resolute,  under  whose  cautious  hand, 
Against  the  foulest  crime  in  history  known  in  any  land  or  age, 
Was  saved  the  Union  of  these  States. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


I 

EN  early  copies  of  the  first  edition  that  were  put  into  cloth 
binding  of  Walt  Whitman  s  /  Drum-taps  /  New  York,  / 
1865. 1  (i2mo  Pp.  i-iv:  5-72,)  the  monody  on  Lincoln 
is  not  to  be  found.  Later  on,  after  the  assassination,  it. 
appeared  in  the  Sequel  to  Drum-taps:  /  (Since  the  preceding 
came  from  the  press.)  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 
Bloomed,  I  and  other  pieces.  /  Washington  /  1865-6.  /  (ismo 
Pp.  1-24.)  The  lyric  "O  Captain!  My  Captain!"  is  also  in 
this  Seqiiel,  while  "  Hush'd  be  the  Camps  To-day  "  had  already 
been  included  among  the  various  poems  that  make  up  Drum- 
taps  (P.  69).  Last  of  all  the  quatrain,  "This  Dust  was  once 
the  Man,"  was  first  printed  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  /  Washington, 
D.  C.  I  1871-2.  /  where  the  entire  suite  of  four  poems  is 
entitled  "  President  Lincoln's  Burial  Hymn."  In  Leaves  of 
Grass  I  Boston  /  1881-2  /  this  section  is  finally  grouped  as 
"  Memories  of  President  Lincoln."  Henceforth  no  further 
changes  were  made  either  in  the  text  or  the  order  of  the  poems. 

II 

President  Lincoln's  funeral  Hymn,  reprinted  in  love  of  the 

poet  and  admiration  of  the  subject  among  the  great  poems  of 

the  language,  at  the  Essex  House  Press,  under  the  care  of  C.  R. 

Ashbee,  who  has  drawn  the  frontispiece  and  capitals.     London, 

1900. 

This  edition  consisted  of  135  copies  only  (Fcap,  8vo,  Pp.  20, 
full  vellum  boards)  all  printed  on  Roman  vellum,  with  frontis 
piece,  initials,  and  pressmark,  colored  by  hand. 


16 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES 


III 

Memories  of  President  Lincoln  and  other  Lyrics  of  the  War 
by  Walt  Whitman.  Portland,  Maine,  1904.  50  copies,  small 
quarto,  (5^x  7)  printed  on  Japan  vellum.  Pp.  xiv:  1-42. 

IV 

Memories  of  President  Lincoln  and  other  Lyrics  of  the  War 
by  Walt  Whitman.  Portland,  Maine,  1906.  Issued  in  Lyric 
Garland  Series,  (925  copies).  Fcap,  8vo,  grey  paper  boards. 
Also  100  numbered  copies  on  Japan  vellum  and  10  copies  on 
Roman  vellum  done  up  in  full  vellum  with  silk  ties,  numbered 
and  signed. 

Second  edition  (925  copies)  on  hand-made  paper  only.    1912. 


FIFTY  COPIES  OF  THIS  BOOK  PRINTED  ON  JAPAN 

VELLUM    AND    THE    TYPE    DISTRIBUTED    IN    THE 

MONTH  OF   SEPTEMBER  MDCCCCXII 

NUMBER   /f 


